


Coach Snape

by aibidil, bananagege, frnklymrshnkly



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - High School, Alternate Universe - Muggle, Alternate Universe - No Voldemort, Athletic Wear, Bad coachmanship, Badass female athletes, Coach Severus Snape, Crack, Fanart, Fawning over Cedric Diggory, Gen, Good sportsmanship, HP Joggers Fest, Humor, La Belladone, Not Peace and Nonviolence Studies, Scrote endangerment, Sports, Sweat, Sweatbands, Sweatsedos, Thwarted Self-Actualisation, Triwizard Tournament AU, Velour tracksuits, Vienettas, Wagers with Dumbledore, War Studies, dodgeball - Freeform, shattered dreams, whistles
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-16
Updated: 2018-07-16
Packaged: 2019-06-11 09:43:39
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,458
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15312762
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aibidil/pseuds/aibidil, https://archiveofourown.org/users/bananagege/pseuds/bananagege, https://archiveofourown.org/users/frnklymrshnkly/pseuds/frnklymrshnkly
Summary: Everyone at Hogwarts Highland Academy knows that Mr Snape hates teaching Chemistry and has been angling for a different post since Headmaster Dumbledore took him on fourteen years ago. But how far is he willing to go to teach the subject of his dreams? Far enough to wear a tracksuit? Yes.





	Coach Snape

**Author's Note:**

> Huge thanks to **maesterchill** for the beta and britpick! She did all she could to keep the punctuation correct, but we can't be stopped.

Severus Snape had always considered himself an intelligent man, a great mind—a tragically unsung genius, even!—thus it was it was not only dismaying, but also a real emotional blow, to realise that intelligence could not guarantee victory in an international under-18s dodgeball tournament. 

It’s not that Severus cared about dodgeball per se, but he was tremendously invested in this particular championship. As with most of the dour aspects of Severus’s adult life, from his pitiful salary to his unpaid labour, Albus Dumbledore was to blame. Dumbledore, the dotty old broom-head who employed Severus to teach Chemistry to the hopeless adolescent dunderheads that came through the doors of Hogwarts Highland Academy, could never just agree to a request like a normal person. Oh no. For Dumbledore, any negotiations between employer and employee in which machination, emotional blackmail, faux sagacity, and hints about the importance of personal growth were absent were a waste of the highest order. Thus, when Severus approached Dumbledore before the beginning of Michaelmas term to submit an application (for the thirteenth time) to teach a truly inspired and rigorous course of his own conception and design—War Studies—he had known he wouldn’t get a straightforward answer.

“Peace and Non-violence, you mean, Severus?” Dumbledore had said with the self-satisfied air of a man who both considered himself morally superior and knew damn well that he held all the cards.

“Yes, yes, Defence Against War Studies," Severus had countered dismissively. How important was the name of the course, after all? “I have revised the syllabus since last year to reflect your… suggestions.” Severus hissed the word through gritted teeth. “And I am sure you’ll find—”

Dumbledore cut him off with a wave of his hand. “Immaterial, Severus—”

“Excuse me?”

“Immaterial. Circumstances have changed and I find myself needing to make a new hire.” 

“I see. And what does this new hire have to do with War Studies?”

“Defence Against War Studies.”

“Of course.” Severus had, grudgingly, to appreciate Dumbledore's tenacity when it came to forcing his peons to agree with him. “What does this new hire have to do with Defence Against War Studies?”

“Everything, I think.” Dumbledore wouldn’t know forthrightness if it bit him on his crooked nose. (Not that Severus was one to talk on either score.)

“I see.” In point of fact, Severus did not see, but he was not going to play along with Dumbledore any more than was absolutely necessary to get what he wanted. Or, more realistically, any more than Dumbledore made him.

“Argus Filch is taking an early retirement.”

“Is he?” Severus asked without interest.

“Yes. He is pursuing an intensive course of psychotherapy in an attempt to get to the root of his pathological hatred of children.”

If Dumbledore suggested that Severus might benefit from a similar protocol, Severus was walking. Salary be damned. How much worse could abject poverty be than the garden variety, after all?

“We all wish him well, of course.”

“Of course,” Snape replied without feeling. 

“In his absence, we find ourselves in need of a replacement dodgeball coach—the team was his extracurricular activity. Interesting, is it not, that a man who loathed and detested children so thoroughly would volunteer to coach them?”

Severus said nothing. He could certainly see the perks of instructing the sacs of oozing hormones to assault one another with projectiles. 

Dumbledore continued. “I would like you to take his place, Severus.”

“Absolutely not.”

Dumbledore raised a hand as though to halt further protestations. “In any other year, I would simply forego dodgeball altogether. However on the basis of their last season, the Hogwarts team has made it to the International Under 18s Dodgeball Tourney.”

Severus winced. What vile being coined the term, _tourney_?

“It would be rather unfair to deprive them of the chance to make the most of their hard work, don’t you think?”

“Life is oftentimes unfair. It is a valuable lesson.”

“And one that they can learn another time.”

“Oh?” Severus prided himself on not being an idiot. He knew exactly where Dumbledore was going, but he was loath to help him get there. 

The silence stretched out.

Eventually, Dumbledore broke the silence. “I should like you to assume the role of coach, Severus.”

“No.”

“Consider—”

“No.”

“You might find this a good opportunity for—”

“No, Albus.”

Dumbledore sighed, as though personally wounded by the reluctance of his staff to self-actualise. 

“Let us make a deal, then. Coach the team, Severus, and you may teach your course next year.”

“You’ll allow me to teach War Studies?” Severus was incredulous. 

“Defence Against War Studies,” Dumbledore corrected jauntily.

***

Severus stood in the bathrooms looking into a mirror with a 1960s industrial metal frame. His face was a picture of despair, which gave him grim satisfaction, because that’s how he felt. There wasn’t much he wouldn’t do for a chance to teach War Studies but, he thought, pulling a sweatband over the top of his head, coaching the ankle-biters in dodgeball was asking a lot, even with War Studies on the line.

He tucked a stray lock of dark hair behind his ear and turned the crank on the soap dispenser. A grinding noise, but—no soap. Severus sighed, the depth of Hogwarts’ hellishness pressing in on him from every angle of this institutionally designed latrine. The toilet stalls looked like they belonged in a prison. And who even used soap dispensers that shaved flakes off a bar of soap anymore? It was the 90s, for fuck’s sake! He needed to remember to bring liquid soap—proper 90s liquid, antibacterial soap!, preferably The Body Shop’s Absinthe scent—from home.

No sooner had he overcome his musings on the deplorable soap situation than he pressed the push-button tap to get only a trickle of water. The trickle, Severus thought, looking up at the terrycloth of the sweatband in his reflection, was a perfect symbol for what was left of his dignity.

“Fuck it, and Dumbledore, too!” he sneered to the empty bathroom.

He wiped his hands on his tracksuit bottoms, the scant bit of water that the tap had deigned to provide him beading on the waterproof fabric. He grabbed the matching tracksuit top from the rickety wooden bench and pulled it on, zipping it up to his chin as he stormed out of the bathroom.

 _Swish, swish._ Even his tracksuit bottoms were mocking him as he strode into the blasted gymnasium.

The students, damn them all to hell, appeared to be having a good time. They stopped chatting and smiling, though, when they saw him coming. Praise be for small pleasures, he thought, as the echoes of their laughter died in the rafters.

“Where’s Coach Filch?” Diggory asked, his merry smile failing to cover what Severus privately believed to be a permanently vacant expression in his handsome eyes.

“Reveling in his irrelevance, I suspect,” Severus answered, his voice cold. “I am your coach now.” _Swish, swish._

The students—his players—did not seem happy to see him. Potter’s face had twisted into a scowl (but then Potter’s face always looked like that, at least when he was around Severus). Diggory and McLaggen looked confused. Longbottom was trembling with fear—how had that clumsy fool even ended up on this team? The girls—Johnson, Bell, Spinnet, Girl Weasley, and Chang—looked fairly neutral and ready to play. Only the Malfoy child—that insufferable suck-up—was happy to see his Chemistry teacher.

“Mr Snape,” Malfoy said, “great to see you here, sir! We’re all ready to go, outfitted as you can see in the new practice joggers my father donated to the team.” He gestured at his leg like one of those women in a ball gown advertising a car on American television.

Potter rolled his eyes at Malfoy, but Severus had to admit that the team joggers were nice—they looked to be a medium-weight jersey, grey, with HOGWARTS printed down the left leg in large block letters. Of course the Malfoys had donated practice joggers—they’d probably donated uniforms, too—Draco never let anyone forget that his father was the Shadow Chancellor of the Exchequer, throwing money around in the school like he longed to do in the government—strategically, and with poor motives.

Potter scowled at Malfoy, and Severus noticed that Potter seemed to have intentionally mussed up his new joggers—the hem was cut jaggedly and they were smeared with mud. Severus looked up into the gymnasium rafters, as if for strength. Of course Potter, son of famed Labour MP, Lily Potter, wouldn’t dare wear Tory joggers without a symbolic protest.

And Severus was supposed to make a team out of these fools? What was he, a dodgeball miracle-worker? He’d barely known of the sport’s existence before Dumbledore had foisted the team on him. Trust Dumbledore to believe that things like “desire” and “commitment” and “gumption” were appropriate substitutes for expertise.

“Alright,” Severus drawled. “Show me what we’re working with, here. Diggory, Malfoy, and Chang on one team; Potter, McLaggen, Longbottom, Johnson, Spinnet, Bell, Weasley on the other. I want to focus on Diggory’s team’s throwing, and remember, it’s good, sound strategy to aim for the head.”

“But sir,” Weasley said, and something about her ginger ponytail annoyed Severus. “You’re just putting all the Gryffindors on defense? That’s not fair, we should play five on five—”

“Enough,” he said. “Let’s see what you’ve got.” He walked to the stands ( _swish, swish_ ) and took a seat.

Diggory, the team captain, took charge, calling out some direction to each side while Malfoy gleefully gathered up as many balls as he could hold.

“Malfoy!” Snape bellowed. “You can’t just hoard the balls! For goodness’ sake, boy! Put them on the centre line.”

Girl Weasley had called her team into a Gryffindor huddle. What was a group of Gryffindors called, Severus wondered. A pride?

The pride adjourned, McLaggen slapping each of his teammates on the arse in turn. 

“No sexual harassment,” Severus reminded, but he didn’t bother raising his voice. What was the point?

Severus picked up a whistle off the bench and blew it, relishing the shrill authoritative shriek.

Diggory pelted a ball into the other team, but Spinnet jumped dramatically out of the way. Potter and Malfoy each ran towards one of the balls on the centre line, staring at each other and refusing to slow down, knocking directly into each other and stumbling backward as Girl Weasley reached around them to get the ball. McLaggen grabbed the ball that had missed Spinnet and aimed it directly at Diggory’s face, knocking him onto his arse and out of the game. Potter had managed to get his hand on a ball and chucked it at Malfoy, but Malfoy caught it, getting Potter out. He gloated for approximately one second but then threw the ball at Girl Weasley and she caught it, wiping the grin off his pointy face. Now it was Chang versus the Gryffindors (minus Potter, who was arguing with Malfoy on the sidelines). 

Longbottom ran for a ball but managed to step on it, his foot flying out in front of him as he collapsed onto his back. As far as Severus was concerned, that counted as an out.

McLaggen hit Spinnet, and when Potter hollered at him for hitting his own teammate he yelled back, “Bro, I can’t tell those two chicks apart!” Chang grabbed a ball and creamed him in the back of the head.

It was Chang versus Weasley, Johnson, and Bell. 

“Chang!” Severus called. “Aim for Gryffindor skull!”

But Johnson executed a brilliant move with Bell, getting Chang exactly where they wanted her and hitting her square in the hip. Girl Weasley, Johnson, and Bell cheered, jumping up to high five each other.

Severus stood up. “Can someone explain why we are celebrating? That was the most pitiable display of ballsmanship I’ve seen in years.” (Which, Severus did not feel the need to add, was not actually saying much considering the only balls he’d seen handled in at least two decades were his own.)

Malfoy put on a pretentious little smirk.

“All of you!” Severus yelled, satisfied when Malfoy’s smile faded. “The incompetent, insufferable, ham-handed lot of you. Longbottom!”

Longbottom stood up straight, his joggers pulled up too high.

“Longbottom,” Severus repeated. “Do not touch the balls. Do not go near the balls. Do not even smell the balls.”

“That’s what she said, amiright bros?” McLaggen called with a swaggering smile, and the girls turned away from him in disgust.

“No sexual harassment,” Severus recited. “Malfoy, Chang, pass to Diggory.”

Chang’s face took on an irate scowl.

“Gryffindors,” he instructed, taking a dramatic pause, “duck.” 

“But Mr Snape!” Johnson objected. “We have tons of plays prepared. We know how to coordinate; it’s how we qualified for the tourney—”

“Use of _that_ wretched diminutive is strictly prohibited, Miss Johnson. And that goes for the rest of you as well,” Severus instructed acidly, taking a few steps forward. ( _Swish, swish._ ) He mightn’t be able to forbid the headmaster from speaking idiotically, but he would be damned if he was going to let these snot rags assault his ears with inanities. “And as it’s _Coach Snape_ from now on, Miss Johnson, I am ordering you to duck.” He whirled around to where Longbottom was cowering on the sidelines and pointed a long finger at the idiotic boy. “Do. Not. Touch. Any. Balls.”

Severus blew the whistle and the teams flew into a flurry of balls and limbs. Everyone was out—helplessly, embarrassingly out—in about ten seconds.

Severus heaved a sigh. He had agreed to this thankless task—he should put effort in. He wanted to win, for the sake of his brain child, War Studies. But this was too much. “Well,” he sneered at his players, who were sprawled on the ground, “you’re hopeless. I can’t watch this. Diggory, you can lead practices. Perhaps start by using Potter and Longbottom as target practice? I’ll see you at the tournament.”

_Swish, swish._

***

Having been all his life a victim of that cruel taskmistress, Fate, gratitude was a foreign concept to Severus. But he had, occasionally, been acquainted with appreciation. This was one of those times. To be sure, he did not appreciate being here, at Hogwarts on a Saturday, in his capacity as coach to a contemptible troupe of ballfumblers. However, having endured the trial of chaperoning the Hogwarts dodgeball team to each of their regular season matches (the games were automatically forfeit without a coach, and the team had to complete the regular season in order for the bye they had earned last year to count) by bus, during which time Severus had found himself a lone crusader against not merely the fearsome onslaught of Whigfield chair-dance-a-longs (he’d had to get the whistle out, which, admittedly, he enjoyed) and also the horrorshow that was attempts of the youth at surreptitious dry-humping (“No sexual harassment” was, sadly, becoming his refrain), Severus could concede, if only to himself, that he _appreciated_ that Hogwarts was hosting the championship game this year.

From what Severus had observed from the sidelines throughout the season, Diggory was doing a reasonable job of whipping the team into shape. What an astute decision it had been, delegating to Diggory. He was an excellent coach. 

Just at that moment, Diggory was leading the team through what Severus assumed was their pre-match ritual. First Diggory turned the floor over to McLaggen, who give a frenetic and high-decibel “pep talk.” It was clever, Severus grudgingly admitted, letting the lummox feel included and important before benching him for the game. After McLaggen had concluded by entreating the group to “GETCHA GAME FACE ONNNN!” and the the rest of the team rolled their collective eyes, Diggory advised them all (wrongly) to remember that the most important thing was fair play and having fun, before beckoning the team to gather together in the sickening display of team spirit known as the huddle. 

The team were dressed in the kits donated by Shadow Chancellor Malfoy. The t-shirts boasted the Hogwarts crest and the words HOGWARTS DODGEBALL. McLaggen had cut the sleeves off his, determined, it seemed, to subject onlookers to the sight of his armpits. The shirts were paired with purple athletic shorts. The style of shorts must have been up to the players, because Girl Weasley wore what could only be called “booty shorts”, while McLaggen had chosen a pair that, in Severus’s opinion, were too long to be called “shorts” at all. The first time Potter had put on the uniform, he’d sulked for an hour and kept referring to the clothes as “blood money,” to which Malfoy had rolled his eyes and told Potter to “cease his smug Labour histrionics.” Now, though, the team had their arms around each other’s shoulders in the mawkish huddle, the politics of the kits forgotten, at least for the moment.

Severus would have prefered to have avoided the whole nauseous pre-game display entirely, as he had been doing all season by waiting on the bus until the last possible second before each game began. However, Dumbledore was going to be in the stands today, and Severus was determined to show the decaying battleaxe that he was taking the thing seriously. Severus did, after all, take War Studies very seriously indeed. 

Still, he was only human and could only be expected to endure so much, so Severus broke up the huddle by blowing into his whistle in several short, forceful bursts and instructed the team, “You will win today, or face my displeasure.”

Longbottom squeaked. Severus smiled inwardly (the only way he knew how). A frightened team would be an effective team—negative reinforcement had always served him in the classroom.

With the team dolt exercised and the rest adequately threatened, Severus frog-marched them out of the ‘Home’ changing room and onto the court. The crowd greeted them with the sound of the polite, familial, I’ve-given-up-my-Saturday-to-be-here applause.

On the court, Diggory shook hands like a twat with the Chaplin-mustached referee while the rest of the the Hogwarts players stuck close together. The opposing team was dawdling in the ‘Away’ changing room. McLaggen took advantage of the extra time to continue giving his fellow players unsolicited advice while they steadfastly ignored him—the girls on principle, and Potter and Malfoy because they were caught up in a pathetic competition to catch Diggory’s attention (they were both stretching out performatively, culminating in two of the sorriest (and only) attempts at the splits Severus had ever seen).

Severus languidly scanned the crowd. Full of insufferable parents, as always, as well as a few even less fathomable spectators—school sport fanatics. The parents, though all despicable in their tuition-paying, looking-down-on-comprehensive-schools elitism, varied wildly. The Longbottom parents—heart-shaped faces, wearing corduroy—smiled and cheered appropriately, while the McLaggens wore “I ONLY RAISE BALLERS” t-shirts and were red-faced and screaming at the referee before the match had even begun. Lily and James Potter were wearing ensembles that Severus thought must have been chosen by a focus group on Labour MP approachability—Lily wore a pair of sedate jeans, Birkenstocks, and a cream-coloured jumper, James also wore jeans and trainers, but looked rather scruffier than his wife. Lily smiled at everyone who sat near them (she even posed for a photo with a little girl, how vulgar), and Severus rolled his eyes. At the opposite end of the stands sat Lucius Malfoy, wearing a dark grey suit, a politician’s tie, and gymnasium-inappropriate wingtips, and his wife, in a skirt suit with a tight chignon. Shadow Chancellor Malfoy sat and clapped in a polite manner that was surely not producing any sound, looking like he’d rather be anywhere else. That is, until someone sitting near him called out, “Blair will never last!” at MP Potter and his lips curled into what might pass for a smile. Severus sighed and turned away from the stands.

Eventually, the crowd began to applaud again, albeit with even less vigour. Severus turned toward the ‘Away’ changing room and saw the opposing team from Beauxbatons Academy taking their place on the opposite side of the court. The team was entirely made up of girls, Severus noticed, and was coached by a woman of a formidable size. One of the players, a blond girl about Diggory and Johnson’s age, headed over to Diggory and the referee to shake hands with each of them. Severus heard her introduce herself as Fleur Delacour. Severus detested her instantly. In the first place, Severus did not subscribe to notions of objective beauty—if he did, he would be forced to acknowledge that while he was doomed to objective ugliness, girls like this enjoyed lives of objective beauty. And in the second, she had an aptronym.

Severus snapped out of his lamentation when the Beauxbatons coach walked up to him and presented her hand. Severus shook it and nodded curtly when she wished him “Bonne partie.” 

A flash of purple caught Severus’s eye; he turned. What a piece of work is a man!—Albus Dumbledore was walking to a seat at the front of the stands wearing a purple velour tracksuit. And—could it be?—yes, either side of the tracksuit was bedazzled with a vertical stripe of rhinestones in a fleur de lis pattern. Was this an intentional slight against Severus and in favour of Beauxbatons (thereby, disrespecting War Studies)? Or was Dumbledore’s adornment merely a case of the universe throwing salt in Severus’s dodgeball-shaped wound?

A whistle blew (hell’s bells, the sound was obnoxious when he was not the one producing it) and the referee shooed the coaches and the extra players from the court, did a final check that the balls were perfectly aligned in the middle of the court, and beckoned the players to take their positions. 

“Remember, team,” Diggory enthused with an expression of aggravating earnestness, “it’s just like playing any other team.”

“No way, man,” McLaggen piped up from the bench, where he sat with Chang, Malfoy, and Longbottom. “La Belladone is merciless. Watch your heads and your scrotes, lads.”

 _La Belladone_? Severus only had time to dismiss McLaggen’s words as the commentary of a neanderthal before the referee blew his whistle again and the rush of the first match began.

Severus allowed himself to feel pleased that Johnson, Spinnet, Bell, and Girl Weasley grabbed four of the six balls during the rush and laid siege to their opponents. Girl Weasley hit a miniature version of Delacour on the first try; Severus briefly considered upgrading her to ‘Weasley’ and demoting her buffoon of a brother to ‘Boy Weasley,’ but such charitable thoughts evaporated when Spinnet took a stinger to the face less than ten seconds into the match. Severus’s eyes snapped across the court just in time to witness Delacour pump her fist before dodging with ease a ball that Johnson lobbed at her in retaliation, picking it up after it bounced, and throwing it back so fast that Johnson failed to stop it knocking the wind out of her. To add insult to injury, it rebounded, taking out Diggory. Diggory shrugged with appalling good grace and gestured to Girl Weasley and Bell, Hogwarts’s most accurate throwers, to focus on Delacour as he left the pitch. When Diggory got to the bench, McLaggen clapped him round the shoulder and told him, “Couldda happened to anyone, man. La Belladone strikes swiftly and without mercy.”

Severus clenched his jaw. 

Delacour was still backed up by four players, who, Severus was increasingly sure, were there strictly as a formality. They were dodging and throwing, it was true, but none of them had managed to get any of the Hogwarts players out by making a catch, and their throwing was collectively abysmal. It didn’t matter. Delacour—La Belladone—was taking care of business on her own. With a bouncer in her hands, she blocked balls from Girl Weasley and Bell in turn before pelting the thing at Potter. He ducked it, though. To Severus’s simultaneous relief and chagrin. La Belladone looked annoyed with herself while Potter, the idiot, took his eyes off the game when Cedric called out, “Good duck, Harry,” as though ducking was not something the average able-bodied person could do. Potter beamed moronically at Diggory.

“EYES ON THE GAME, POTTER!” Severus bellowed, determined to stamp out the twitterpated tomfoolery before it cost him his course. But it was too late. While La Belladone got Bell out with a catch, Potter took an easy-to-dodge ball to the backside from one of her weaker teammates, and fell, limbs akimbo, to the floor. Girl Weasley managed to get two more of the opposing team out with a well-placed hit and rebound, but it wasn’t enough. They still had three players to her one. La Belladone smirked before hurling a stinger at Girl Weasley at such a high rate of speed that it passed through her outstretched hands and smacked her in the side of the head. La Belladone ran across court, dropping to her knees and sliding on her knee pads in celebration before getting up and slapping Girl Weasley on the shoulder as though they were mates and Girl Weasley was not visibly seething about the loss.

The game timer was still ticking down—they had not even played out the clock.

Severus glowered at his team. Diggory’s way was clearly not going to work. 

Severus slipped a finger under his sweatband and snapped it against his forehead. It was time for some special tactics.

***

The ruthless referee, Crouch, called for a ten-minute break to regroup and hydrate.

Severus needed to energise the girl squad if his team was going to win. How best to energise a bunch of teenage girls? The problem was, Severus, though brilliantly strategic, did not have an excellent track record when it came to understanding the motivations and psychology of teenage girls. Or teenagers in general.

Severus was contemplating this intractable problem when a gruff throat-clearing distracted him. He turned to find Coach Karkaroff sitting on the bleacher behind him.

“Missing the action now that you’re out of the tournament, Igor?” Snape drawled, admiring Karkaroff’s joggers—they had poppers up the outside of each leg—while frowning at his repulsive pairing of Adidas slide sandals and socks.

Karkaroff stated the obvious. “You’ve got to take out this Belladone, Severus. She obliterated even my Viktor.” Karkaroff turned and Severus followed his gaze to the burly young man who was sitting behind Potter’s cronies, Weasley and Granger, and appearing very uninterested in anything happening on the court and altogether too interested in Ms Granger’s neckline. Perhaps it wasn’t all bad, though; Severus noticed that Krum’s attention was riling up the idiot Weasley, which usually resulted in Severus having an excuse to take points off Gryffindor, and, on special occasions, hand down (with relish) a detention or two.

“Yes, I know, thank you,” Severus snapped. He was testy with Igor at the best of times. Karkaroff taught a course similar to what would be War Studies (though he called it something asinine like History of Western Civilisations) at Durmstrang Prep. They’d studied warcraft together, of course, long ago, and Karkaroff never let Severus forget that he was stuck teaching Chemistry.

Severus turned to look at his players. Diggory was stood on the sideline doling out encouraging smiles like Severus doled out failing grades. Potter and Malfoy stood in front of him, each of them alternating pats on Diggory’s opposite shoulders. Longbottom was sitting cross-legged on the floor, not even pretending to be a part of the team. McLaggen stood behind the others, shouting out vaguely relevant clichés (“Mind over body, folks!” and “Pain is temporary!”) and punctuating each with a slap on someone’s arse.

“No sexual harassment,” Severus called without feeling, and Karkaroff snorted.

The girls of the team stood in a huddle, apparently in deep conversation about strategy.

“Your girls aren’t even paying attention to the boys,” Karkaroff observed, pointing at Chang, who had just swatted away McLaggen’s arse-slap without even looking, the way one swats at a mosquito. No, not even a mosquito—a gnat.

Of course.

“Igor, you magnificent imbecile. That’s it.” Severus grinned. “Spite. That’s how I motivate the girls. Spite.”

“What?” Karkaroff asked, confused, but Severus had already stood and was walking swiftly towards his team ( _swish, swish_ ).

“Team,” he said when he got to them—and, oh, now he was back in his element, about to dash the hopes and dreams of teenagers, it was just like in his Chemistry classroom— “Team. That was pathetic. Change of line-up. Weasley, Johnson, Spinnet, Bell—you’re out. Chang, Diggory, McLaggen, Potter, Malfoy, Longbottom—you’re in.”

“WHAT?!” bellowed the majority of the team.

“You can’t do that!” Girl Weasley hollered, her ponytail bouncing and her face turning almost as red as her hair. “You can’t just bench four of the girls! We’re the best players out there! You’re going to let McLaggen and Neville play—sorry Neville—” (Longbottom held up his hands to indicate no offence was taken; he looked as surprised as the girls did about their unjust benching) “while we sit on the bench?!”

Normally Severus would’ve cut her off after one, maybe two, words, but he wanted them to get good and angry. There were still four matches left. They might sacrifice one—that’s what good strategists do: they understand the calculus of short-term sacrifices for long-term victory.

“I am your coach, Miss Weasley,” he snarled, “and if you hope ever to play again, you will sit. On the bench.”

“ _Ms_ Weasley,” Girl Weasley corrected, and Severus opened his mouth to penalise her for her impudence but Bell had already taken her by the arm and pulled her to the bench. All five girls looked murderous.

Severus couldn’t keep a grin off his face as he turned to the boys and Chang. “Well,” he said, looking down his nose at the sorry bunch, “do your best, I suppose.”

***

Severus sat smugly, eagerly awaiting the disaster.

McLaggen exuded a frenzied exuberance. "This is it, fellas!" he enthused, reaching around to slap them each on the back. "This is our chance! Are you ready to show these French broads how we do it in Scotland? Because I think these yats are about to suck our fucking cocks!"

Chang's eyebrows drew together in disgust, and even the rest of the boys looked uncomfortable.

"No sexual harassment," Severus drawled.

Diggory pasted on an inane smile and redirected the group away from McLaggen's misogyny-disguised-as-pep-talk. "Team," he said, "this is our chance. We're Hogwarts! Hoggy warty Hogwarts! We can do this."

Severus watched on, nose crinkled in disgust at the Hufflepuff's incomprehensible sincerity.

At Diggory's reference to the horrid school song, Malfoy—the brown-noser—piped up in a competent baritone, "Teach us something please!" He smiled obsequiously at Diggory.

Potter grabbed Malfoy's arm and pulled him away. Without letting go of Malfoy's bicep, Potter sang, "Whether we be old or bald!"

Malfoy turned to him, face furious, and sang back louder, "Or young with scabby knees!" He held "knees" as if it was written under a fermata.

Potter stepped closer to Malfoy. "Our heads could do with filling!"

Malfoy stepped closer; their spotty noses were nearly touching. Together, they continued singing all the way through to "And learn until our brains all rot!", getting louder all the while.

Severus had been teetering on the edge of a headache since he walked into the fluorescent gymnasium an hour ago, but he was now officially calling it a migraine.

When the morons finished singing, Potter blinked and gave a small smile to Malfoy.

"What song is that, bros?" McLaggen asked. "It was a banger!"

"Er, excellent," Diggory said with a slightly confused smile. "Okay, let's do this!"

The teams gathered on the court and Crouch blew the whistle. 

Severus glanced over at his benched players, eager to see the disappointment and outrage on their youthful, unjaded faces.

But just as he was enjoying the anger he found on Girl Weasley's and Johnson's faces, the crowd let out a collective gasp and cry of anguish, and Severus looked back at the court. 

Oh, for the love of Pete. He'd turned his back for one second and Diggory was on the ground, looking for all the world like he'd just been knocked unconscious. The work of La Belladone, no doubt.

Severus stood. Crouch blew his abominable whistle to stop the clock due to injury.

"Noooo!" Potter cried, running across the court and throwing himself onto the floor, pressing his fingers to Diggory's neck to check for a pulse. "Nooooooo!" 

Severus took a few steps forward ( _swish, swish_ ), thinking about all the paperwork he'd need to fill out if Diggory were actually hurt. 

But Diggory blinked and reached up to press his hand to his head.

"Does anyone have a torch?!" Potter screamed, cradling Diggory's head. "I need to check his eyes!" He looked down at Diggory and smiled reassuringly.

"My son!" Amos Diggory was running down the stands holding a small torch aloft. "That's my boy!" The crowd parted to let the man through.

Severus sat back down, tempted to get out the most recent issue of the _Journal of Conflict Resolution_ , which was in his bag, until these antics were through. But he was aware that Dumbledore was nearby, and less-than-attentive coaching would not bode well for War Studies, so Severus pretended to care from his seat.

Amos Diggory shone his torch in his son's eyes and declared that the boy was alright, just a minor concussion, but that Cedric was out of the game. The Diggorys walked arm-in-arm off the court to a nearby bench, and Crouch blew his whistle.

But Potter's face contorted in anguish and he held out his hand to Crouch, stopping the other players from resuming. "First we need to acknowledge the loss of a very fine person, who should be playing here."

Amos Diggory and Labour MP Potter began to clap; Severus pinched his nose.

"He was a good and loyal friend," Potter continued. "A hard worker, he valued fair play."

Crouch blew his whistle three times, and after a verbal scuffle Severus realised that Potter's little speech had just cost them the ability to send in a sub for Diggory, because the speech had gone past their fifteen-second window. 

What an utter shambles. Severus grinned and glanced back at the girls on the bench.

Play resumed, and Severus felt giddy as he watched McLaggen get out almost immediately by catching a ball. Potter kept looking over at Diggory's bench like a man in mourning, and Severus felt the need to call out, "He's not dead, Potter! Eyes on the game!"

Potter turned his attention back to the game just in time for La Belladone, whose impressive sweat had soaked a dark triangle down to her navel, to pelt him in the gut, and the ball rebounded off Potter to nail Malfoy in the arm. 

Severus smiled; this match was going as well as he had expected: only Longbottom and Chang were left against La Belladone and three other Beauxbaton players.

Longbottom saw a ball roll his direction, but instead of picking it up he looked over at Severus, who narrowed his eyes menacingly. Longbottom let the ball roll by, and Severus reflected with satisfaction that at least one of his players took his coaching seriously.

As Longbottom watched the ball roll past his foot, he slipped, falling out of bounds and out of the game. The French team's focus turned to Chang, who was hit with three balls simultaneously.

Severus grinned. Play had lasted less than a minute, minus the time-out for injury. He looked back at the Gryffindor girls. Let it never be said that Severus did not know how to motivate his best players.

***

Severus white knuckled the third match. A few beads of sweat escaped his headband and rolled down his forehead. He was stressed and overheating, but under no circumstances was he going to unzip his tracksuit. Half-mast zips were for weaklings who couldn’t master their own internal temperatures. And besides, he was confident that he had made the best strategic call. What he was unsure of was whether or not his team could overcome the lethal combination of La Belladone’s velocity and accuracy. 

In the end he was self-satisfied, though hardly surprised, to find that he had been right. Johnson, Spinnet, Bell, and Girl Weasley had used their time on the bench not merely to stew in their indignant juices (though they managed that with aplomb, if their glares were any indication), but also to come up with a new game plan. When they resumed the court with Chang and Potter for match three, they immediately targeted La Belladone's weaker teammates. They were also better prepared for her bullets; they stuck to using bouncers as best they could to block them, giving up catching anything she threw as a bad job. 

In the end, though they had lost Bell, Chang, Johnson, and Potter, they still had two players standing when the timer buzzed, and thus took the match, as an increasingly sweaty Belladone had been left with nothing but the growing patches of sweat under her arms and on her chest and back for company.

Severus breathed a sigh of relief. War Studies was not yet dead in the water. Severus would have dosed himself with arsenic before giving into the folly of optimism—he knew both of the next two matches were do or die. And losing Diggory in match two (and by extension, Malfoy, who was making a nuisance of himself asking Diggory if he needed water? electrolytes? a pillow? a neck rub?) was not ideal. But if he could get the girls angry enough, they might manage it. After all, La Belladone had now played three consecutive matches. She must be tiring, musn't she? 

Severus looked across the court. Madame Maxime was icing her star player's shoulder, but La Belladone didn't seem pained... Severus snarled. He rounded on his team and set himself to the happy task of further enraging his strongest players. 

"I certainly hope to see a better effort than whatever you call _that_ in the next match. You were three against one for a while and still couldn't get rid of her? A pitiful display.”

“Are you having us on?!” cried Girl Weasley. “We won that last one in the face of La Belladone’s full missile barrage! You should be—”

“They did their best, Coach Snape,” Cedric intervened. “A good show, girls.”

The Hogwarts girls nodded and smiled at Cedric before setting once more to scowling at Severus. Good.

“Well then I suggest they do Delacour’s best during the next match instead. And—” 

Crouch blew his whistle, rudely interrupting Severus’s coaching, and ordered the teams back onto the court. Severus sent out the girls plus McLaggen—another risky move, but Severus was confident in his ability to predict the actions of hot-to-trot jocks after over a decade of cunningly avoiding them in his own school days plus the fourteen years he’d spent enduring their mood swings, stoney silences, outbursts, and outright tantrums in his classroom. 

He was pleased to find that his self-assurance in this regard was not misplaced. Whereas they had tried to defend Potter when he was on the court, the girls left McLaggen’s cake out in the rain, sacrificing him without delay, thus keeping their attentions undivided. This time only Girl Weasley remained on the court blocking La Belladone’s throws, but Hogwarts won on the basis of fewer match penalties (one of La Belladone’s woeful comrades had made a throw with a foot over the line). All was not lost for War Studies.

Despite eking out two wins, though, Severus remained concerned. La Belladone did not seem to be growing weary. Though she was red faced and now surrounded in a veritable puddle of sweat, defeat seemed somehow to be energising her—was she not human?! Contrarily, although the Hogwarts team was hitting its stride strategically, his confirmedly human team _did_ seem to be tiring.

The final match could go either way, and Severus desperately needed a win. 

Desperate times called for desperate measures. Bolstered by the knowledge that the risks he’d taken thus far had paid off, Severus benched McLaggen despite the uppity oaf’s protests (“Come on, coach! I’m still green hella green!”) and sent Longbottom onto the court.

***

Under normal circumstances, Neville Longbottom would not be considered an athletic secret weapon. He had never expressed, to Severus’s knowledge, an aptitude for physical enterprises. He was such a little wimp that even his own friends bullied him; and he was a shrinking violet who preferred to spend his time doing extra-curricular cultivation in the school garden than socialising. Severus detested the namby-pamby little milksop (and absolutely did not project his own self-loathing and regret on to him).

And yet, on this occasion, Severus was betting the farm on Longbottom. No, more than that. What was at stake was not some smelly, shitty hovel in the middle of nowhere, but War Studies!—his magnum opus! But the move might pay off. When Severus had sent Longbottom out in match two to get the girls’ dander up, he had noticed something—Longbottom had managed to evade all of the balls. The point had been moot at the time, as Beauxbatons had taken the match, but now… Now it seemed that Longbottom’s lifetime of dodging bullies and side-stepping conflict might get him somewhere, if the fucking lump could just apply the same principle to dodging balls.

Severus’s eyes flicked to the stands, intending to check on his benched players—he supposed he had some responsibility to make sure that McLaggen wasn’t groping anyone. But McLaggen wasn’t engaged in molestation, he was sitting next to the Diggorys and talking excitedly about something. Good, let Amos deal with that lawsuit-waiting-to-happen. But where were Potter and Malfoy? Oh, sweet merciful heavens—they were stood just beyond the stands, partially out of view, spelunking each other’s mouths with eager teenaged tongues. Severus didn’t know whether to laugh or vomit. A quick glance into the stands at the Malfoy and Potter parents made up his mind—he would laugh. Oh, he would laugh.

Bell, Spinnet, Girl Weasley, Johnson, Chang, and Longbottom took to the court, across from their opponents. Severus noticed, to his immense irritation, that Dumbledore was not satisfied to sit benignly in his ludicrous sweatsedo—oh no, he had to _beam_ at Severus when he put Longbottom into play, as though the mouldering hoser thought Severus was giving the lad a chance out of some newly discovered purity of heart. 

Across the court, La Belladone’s sweat stains were merging together, and more of her clothing was wet than dry. She looked absolutely menacing, which played into Severus’s hand perfectly. The more scared Longbottom got, the better.

Crouch blew his whistle and play began. Severus noticed, grudgingly impressed, that La Belladone focussed immediately on trying to remove Girl Weasley from play. A worthy strategy—picking off the strongest first to leave the rest undefended. 

Longbottom shrunk to the back of the court to hide behind his teammates, who had fallen into a defensive formation. Chang and Spinnet were nearest no man’s land with bouncers, doing their best to deflect incoming balls away from Johnson, Bell, and Girl Weasley—the strongest throwers—while they in turn attempted to put down La Belladone. 

They were having a tough go of it—but they were at least managing, so far, to avoid getting hit themselves. Before long Johnson called out to Bell and Weasley, “Keep wearing down La Belladone! I’ll focus on the others!” Was Johnson mad?—perhaps losing her grip due to too much exertion? It was plain to Severus and anyone else observing that La Belladone was not wearing down in the least. Quite the contrary, she danced out of the way of the Hogwarts balls directed at her and, once they had bounced, picked them up and returned fire. It was not unlike watching a windmill (if the windmill’s power were supplemented by nuclear fission). 

Johnson managed to get one of La Belladone’s teammates out, but she was facing four players on her own, and, though she was more skilled than they, she still had to block their incoming throws between making her own. Longbottom—the saboteur!—moved to emerge from his safe refuge behind the action to assist her. 

“DON’T YOU DARE, LONGBOTTOM! DO _NOT_ TOUCH ANY BALLS!” Snape growled so ferociously that Longbottom staggered backward, nearly putting his heel out of bounds. “WATCH WHERE YOU’RE PUTTING YOUR FEET, BOY!” Severus was screaming now—he had reached banshee pitch. He would not consign War Studies to the rubbish bin because Longbottom was oscillating between good sportsmanship and abject terror. Longbottom peeked over his shoulder and shifted his weight such that he was able to avoid stepping over the line. 

Near the middle of the court, the battle raged on. One of Bell’s balls, rebounding off of a block by La Belladone, managed to get another of her teammates out. “Je suis désolée!” she called out without missing so much as a beat as she wound up her deadly overhand and let go. Bell’s lucky shot was negated when La Belladone hit home. 

In response, Johnson caught a ball in the air, dismissing another opponent, while Girl Weasley redoubled her efforts—she now seemed to be carrying on nothing short of a one-sided vendetta against La Belladone.

By contrast, La Belladone herself seemed to have reached some kind of sweat-induced state of zen. She had achieved a steady rhythm of dodging, grabbing fresh ammunition, and returning to sender. Johnson managed to catch two more balls in succession, which might almost have impressed Severus, but La Belladone managed to pay her back in kind immediately afterward, hitting Johnson so hard in the back that she fell forward, splayed out on the floor. 

“AVANT!” Girl Weasley shrieked. Chang and Spinnet obeyed without hesitation, moving closer to no man’s land to give her a better range. The downswing was that brought them closer to La Belladone, who feinted like she was aiming to brain Chang and then threw low and hit her in the shin instead.

Girl Weasley threw like a woman possessed, but furious focus had become just fury and she missed wide, luckily catching another player across the court on the hand. She whooped with mad glee—what a grotesque display; had the girl no self control? The lucky miss seemed to refocus her, though, and she easily caught out La Belladone’s last standing teammate just as Spinnet finally succumbed to a missile. 

“NO!” Ginny wailed. She advanced further, visibly throwing with every ounce of strength she could muster, but just as she let go, the sound of Crouch’s detestable whistle rent the air.

“OUT!” Crouch called decisively. He punctuated the call by pointing one arm to the sky and then dropping it down, still outstretched, to chest level. Severus wanted to break it.

“WHAT DO YOU MEAN, OUT?!” Severus demanded. Damnation! Girl Weasley had failed him. Even turning into a volcano erupting incandescent rage had not enabled her to put paid to La Belladone.

“She stepped into no man’s land before she released the ball, Coach Snape,” Crouch explained in tones that were gratingly unaffected. “Rules are rules—to the bench, Miss Weasley.”

“It’s MS Weasley! Fine!” Girl Weasley, who had just ruined any chance of ever being promoted to Weasley proper, stormed off towards the bench where Diggory offered her platitudes and Johnson, Bell, and Chang commiserated. 

Crouch tooted on his whistle again and play resumed. La Belladone and Longbottom were now the only players remaining, and, thanks to Girl Weasley, if the time ran out, the match would go to Beauxbatons because of her penalty. 

“You can do it, Neville!” chorused the Hogwarts team from the bench. 

“Nev, mate, it’s all about follow-through. See? Like this.” McLaggen began demonstrating a sub-par cricket bowling technique from the sidelines. 

“LONGBOTTOM! PAY ATTENTION! DON’T EVEN THINK ABOUT TAKING YOUR EYES OFF THE COURT! AND SHUT UP, MCLAGGEN!” 

Longbottom’s eyes snapped back ahead as La Belladone aimed a ball at his leg. Severus closed his eyes. He couldn’t watch. 

The sound of the ball smacking into a body never came, though. 

Instead Severus distinctly heard it bounce off of the floor. He opened his eyes. Longbottom had sidestepped it. Could Longbottom, against all odds, pull through for Severus?—for War Studies?

La Belladone sized Longbottom up, snatched another ball off of the ground and heaved it at him. He popped a squat and it whizzed over his head. She rapidly re-armed herself and threw another where Longbottom was crouched, but he popped back up and it sailed between his legs. 

La Belladone nodded to herself, as if reassessing the situation. She was clearly in no hurry. Longbottom had taken Severus’s training threats to heart and was not moving towards (or even looking at) the balls on his side of the court. La Belladone wound up and threw one shot-put style, perhaps intending to psyche out Longbottom. It ought, by all rights, to have hit him in the shoulder, but Longbottom tilted his torso on an angle and it missed him by millimeters.

As La Belladone dashed to grab more ammunition, McLaggen called out: “Dope, Neville! That was some slow-mo action shit!”

“I SAID SHUT UP, MCLAGGEN!” Severus roared. But McLaggen did not shut up. Against Severus’s express orders, he did the opposite. 

“Now just grab a ball and clobber her, man! Just focus on one spot and—” 

This time, McLaggen did shut up, because Severus made him. With the game still in play, Severus marched onto the court ( _swish, swish_ ), picked up a stinger, and threw it viciously at the cro magnon noise merchant. It hit him, as intended, in the head, and knocked him out cold.

 _WHISTLE_! _WHISTLE_! _WHISTLE_!

“Coach Snape!” Crouch screamed, “Off the court at once! Foul play, sir!”

Severus clenched his jaw but did not offer a defence. What could he say? He had not found in fourteen years a sympathetic ear when it came to the limit-testing faculties of youths.

While Crouch escorted him away from the sidelines and into the stands, he kept up a steady stream of remonstrances, chastising Severus roundly for his “illegal breach of the court” and his “highly irregular” approach to coaching.

Severus was sat, practically levitating with the injustice of it all, in the stands next to Dumbledore. It was more than he could bear. When the ancient fop had the gall to ask Severus, “So what have you learned from this experience?” Severus actually put his head in his hands and held back tears.

Back on the court, the game resumed to the sound of Crouch’s whistle. And oh, how Severus longed to strangle the interfering bastard with the string. 

La Belladone did not wait to make her move. She did an almighty wind-up, bringing one leg up in front of her as she pulled her throwing arm as far back as it would go. She lobbed a ball at Longbottom’s torso, aiming for the largest target. If Severus had not seen it, he would not have believed it: Longbottom bent backwards from the knees, as though doing a limbo, seeming to defy gravity as La Belladone’s ball streaked over him, almost touching in turn the bulge of his round stomach and the tip of his nose.

Some tiny glimmer of hope inside of Severus twitched. La Belladone was down to one ball—the rest were now on Longbottom’s side. If he could throw two or three quickly enough...

“PICK UP A BALL, LONGBOTTOM, _NOW_!” 

“So good to see you keeping involved as an athletic supporter, Severus,” Dumbledore said while Crouch blew his whistle and called out a reminder that Coach Snape had been ejected from the game.

Severus didn’t care. 

“THE BALLS, BOY! THE BALLS! GET ONE! ANY ONE! SHE’S DEFENSELESS! _FINISH HER_!”

“Good to see you so actively involved in an extracurricular, Severus, I’ve been saying for years—”

Dumbledore stopped, attention drawn to the court as Longbottom sent a ball towards La Belladone with abysmal aim and a shocking lack of force. It bounced off of the floor well ahead of her. She caught it. 

It was all too much for Severus—he was watching his life’s work, his beloved War Studies, be flushed down the toilet by the wretched little sap. 

“LONGBOTTOM, YOU WILL LIVE TO REGRET—”

 _THWACK_

Distracted as he was by Severus’s tirade, Longbottom failed to evade La Belladone’s aim for a sixth time. 

The Hogwarts fans groaned loudly. 

Delacour did the airplane on the court, running into the arms of her celebrating team. Madame Maxime stood with her arms wide, beaming and intoning a stream of French congratulations.

The Hogwarts team clapped each other round the shoulders in sympathy, except for McLaggen, who moved to dole out arse pats, but was waylaid by a cheerful, “No sexual harassment, remember?” from Diggory. 

Longbottom had the audacity to look relieved that the ordeal was over.

Severus fumed and wished, for the first time in his life, that lack of athletic prowess was an offence punishable by exclusion.

***

Severus sat morosely on the wooden bench, watching as the crowd and the teams dispersed. Dumbledore made his way around the gymnasium, shaking hands in his exorbitant tracksuit. Severus turned away from the sight; he couldn’t bear to see the Headmaster’s gloating.

Diggory was apparently well enough to offer a sportsmanlike and despicable handshake to La Belladone, and Madame Maxime took the chance to call Krum over for a captain’s photo. Severus had to avert his eyes from the handsome lot of them. 

“I could go for a Vienetta,” Diggory said jovially, and before Severus could gouge his ears out he was subjected to the three captains agreeing to head to Tesco’s for celebratory Vienettas, since Fleur had never tasted “this delicacy.”

But if there was anything more disturbing than good-natured friendships between people who should have the decency to act like rivals, it was spit-swapping between people who should have the decency to act like rivals—Potter and Malfoy were still going at it. They were so wrapped up in a contest of bizarre kissing one-upmanship (“You suck at kissing, you tosser!” “You’re just afraid to kiss me again!” “Oh yeah?” “Prove it, then!”) that they hadn’t noticed the horror on their watching parents’ faces. Labour MP Potter quickly schooled her face into a neutral, camera-ready expression, but her husband had no such inclination or ability. Mrs Malfoy had to look away, hand covering her mouth, while Shadow Chancellor Malfoy pressed his lips together in disapproval. James Potter looked over at the Malfoys, and hollered, “I hope you’re not going to say something homophobic about my son, Malfoy!” Malfoy turned on James Potter with a sneer and spat, “Clearly your son needs no more marks against him than his party affiliation!” Labour MP Potter had to pull James away by the arm. All the while, juniors Potter and Malfoy remained locked at the lips. If only Severus had been coerced into coaching tonsil hockey, he might be preparing his introductory remarks for War Studies’ inaugural class right now.

Distracted by this scene, Severus hadn’t noticed Dumbledore approaching, but the dotty old man was there, patting him on the shoulder and watching the Potter-Malfoy embrace. “Ah, dodgeball. Just the thing for building bridges.”

Severus could not keep the disdain from his face, and he did not try. “Spare me your banalities.”

“Perhaps you ought to speak more diplomatically, if you still intend to convince me that you are qualified to teach Defense Against War Studies,” Dumbledore said, a twinkle in his evil eyes. Severus hoped he got cataracts.

“I am more than qualified to teach War Studies,” Severus hissed.

“Ah, yes, yes,” Dumbledore said. “The behaviour that got you thrown out of the game did much to convince me of your commitment to the study and practice of nonviolence.”

Severus sighed.

“Ah well,” Dumbledore replied jovially, standing and patting Severus on the shoulder. “There’s always next year’s dodgeball tourney. Until then, we shall pack away our athletic wear and return to the privileged task of teaching the future of our country. There’s a new cohort of students eager to learn Chemistry. Imagine,” Dumbledore said with a vicious little chuckle, “a whole new set of students who don’t know the meaning of the words ‘titre’ and ‘solute’! What a joy for you to be able to teach them!”

Dumbledore walked away.

Severus pulled off his headband in disgust and crushed it under his heel.

**Author's Note:**

> Aibidil would like it known that the authors are aware of the political anachronism (the Triwizard Tournament took place 1994-1995 and Tony Blair did not become PM until 1997), but have decided that anachronism is a small price when the payoff is Lucius Malfoy as Shadow Chancellor.
> 
> Come say hi to [aibidil](https://aibidil.tumblr.com), [bananagege](http://banana-ge-ge.tumblr.com), and [frnklymrshnkly](https://frnklymrshnkly.tumblr.com) on Tumblr!


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